


Crafted Crowns

by LadyBrooke



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Getting Them To Smile, Hair Brushing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBrooke/pseuds/LadyBrooke
Summary: Finduilas let them believe what they said of her in the city to keep Maeglin hidden, even as she tried to find some craft for him.
Relationships: Finduilas Faelivrin/Maeglin | Lómion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 53
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Crafted Crowns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isilloth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isilloth/gifts).



Finduilas knew what they said in the city - she was frail, she wept away her days, there was nothing here but flowers for she could not stand the sight of weapons or jewels anymore. 

She let them say so, for it kept them away from the cottage in the woods where Maeglin now dwelt. 

She had found him one day, crying beside a stream, distraught and claiming he had nowhere else to go. And Finduilas knew that was not true - how could she not have known, when Turgon was still best friends with her uncle, and she had heard their discussions and Turgon’s worries for the nephew he believed lost in the wilds of Valinor?

But she could not convince Maeglin of that fact, and she would not tell others and force him into anything, not when she had heard his screams in the night. 

He was still draped across the couch when she returned that day, a basket of food and flowers tucked in the crook of her arm. 

He mumbled something. Hello, she assumed, and probably a question about if anyone knew he was here. 

“Turgon is still seeking you, but he believes you have made your way somewhere with a forge, or at least closer to Aulë’s lands than here.” She did not need to look at Maeglin in the mirror to know he was shuddering behind her. She had asked Curufin one day, under the guise of inquiring about how Celebrimbor was, and he had said it could take years before one so tortured was ready to work again. 

Years Maeglin did not have. She could make their excuses for as long as she wished, but eventually someone would discover that too much food was ordered for one person, or her uncles would stop in unexpectedly, and Maeglin must be able to withstand their questions without fleeing. 

“Will you allow me to help you with your hair?” she said instead of any of those things. This time she did look back at him, carrying the flowers towards the couch when he nods. 

He looked confused, but not distrustful of them. Good, she could work with that. 

She started slowly, carefully. She lost track of time, whether it had been minutes or hours since she started brushing, but eventually Maeglin’s hair fell down his back in dark waves, free of knots and tangles. 

She waited a moment, to see if he would pull away. 

When he did not, she started to brush his hair again. This time she plaited it into braids, those she remembered Finrod wearing in her childhood. She knew they were similar to the ones Turgon wore, and she worried it would be too much, but other than a brief inhale, Maeglin said nothing when he glances in the mirror. 

“If you wish a different style, I can do otherwise.” 

“Nay,” he said. His voice sounds stronger than normal, she thought, less unsure. “I did not think I would ever be permitted these braids again, but if you are sure -”

“I am sure.”

She continued, until the braids are placed. All that was needed now was a circlet, and for that she picked up some of the flowers and began to weave them together. Maeglin watched in the mirror, as she quickly worked. 

This part did not take long. She had planned it as she picked the flowers, plotted what she would do and which vines and stems would need to be twisted together, and what flowers Maeglin would prefer. She did not have to fear hurting the flowers either, and that had been the part that took the longest with Maeglin. She could not hurt him, not when she was trying to coax him back. 

Finally she placed the crown on his hair and waited. 

“My Uncle only wore metal crowns - the lords, as well, their circlets shone in the light.” His hand hovered near the circlet of flowers on his head, as though he was afraid to touch it. 

She took another flower from the basket and twirled it between her fingers as she answered. “My uncle wore crowns of flowers on some occasions. Many in Doriath did, and I suppose he acquired the habit from them.” 

Maeglin looked at the mirror again. She knew that look. Celebrimbor wore it sometimes, when he had found it in some new piece of craftsmanship he did not entirely understand but was determined to figure out. 

She was not surprised when Maeglin turned to look at her. “Are there enough flowers that I may try?” 

She nodded. She did not tell him that she had planted the cottage’s gardens with flowers suitable for this, that she had mapped the forests surrounding them for wild plants suitable, that she would order flowers if they stripped the garden and the forest bare of them. 

She did not need to, she knew as he looked through the basket, his eyes picking over the flowers and recognizing the ones planted in the garden and the ones that could be found in the woods. 

“I wished you to have a craft again,” she said, when the silence began to tear at her nerves.

“Thank you.” His eyes looked brighter when he glanced up again. 

She helped him, when he wished it. Most of the time he did not, hiding in the bedroom and coming out to gift her a new crown. She gave him this time.

She made sure too that she wore his crowns when she left, hugging him goodbye and bringing new and different flowers back when she could. He smiled brighter each time, starting to tell her more stories about his first life, happier ones during the day and sadder ones on those nights when one or both of them awoke from nightmares of their pasts. 

“Come to dinner with me,” she said one night, after Maeglin had finished making her another crown. “My grandfather has been asking who makes these for me.” 

“Will my uncle be there?” Maeglin asked instead of answering. 

Finduilas nodded once.

Maeglin took another breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he smiled. “I will.”

That - for once she was surprised. 

It must have shown on her face, for Maeglin ducked his head and then picked something up from the shelf behind him. It looked like a circlet, but it was far too small, and then he motioned for her hand and she took a breath. 

“I will make us silver and gold rings if you wish, but I will not court you in secret in the woods.” His face twisted, and he must have thought of his parents, of that marriage in the woods. She would have married him here, if he wished, but he did not and that said more than anything about how he had changed. 

She kissed him. “Yes.”


End file.
